Time Will Give Us Nothing
by maraudings
Summary: If she remembers him, if she remembers what he did, he knows it will all be shattered. - two shot, modern day.
1. i

******title: **time will give us nothing**  
****rating: **k+**  
****disclaimer: **belongs to the bbc.**  
a/n:** because another modern day, reincarnation fic is just what the archive needed. sorry this first part is so short- it stemmed from a drabble i wrote for tumblr and couldn't seem to grow that much more. the second part should make up for it, though.

* * *

_-time will give us nothing-_

* * *

Time pressed on. Despite the absence of the Pendragon line, despite the absence of the Once and Future King, life resumed. Centuries passed, kingdoms rose and fell, wars were raged. He was perhaps the only thing that remained constant in this world.

It had been unnerving to watch everything he had grown to know wither and die while he retained his youth. When the last traces of his world fell, it was only fitting that he would disappear with it.

He distanced himself from the foreign. He discovered that he preferred the solitude, the isolation, having learned that change was not something he favored. His world had slipped away right in front of him, and no matter how hard he tried he could not erase the feeling of not belonging. He is disconnected, feeling more and more lost with each passing sunrise.

He stopped counting the days—the concept of time becomes a little lost after having lived as long as he has.

Now, he waits. Waits for the day his destiny foretold. It's all he has left.

The loneliness can be unbearable. Weeks will pass without a word exchanged with another person. He'll spend nights lying in bed, staring at the wooden planks that compose his ceiling as voices fill the void. But he's discovered there is nothing worst when the silence is filled the memories of those he has lost.

He sees gold dragons on red banners. Lavish feast and banquets. Heavy chainmail glistening under rays of sun. A bouquet of purple flowers. A crown being placed atop a head of flaxen hair. Stacks of books on the Old Religion. Waves of dark hair against emerald eyes. A vial of hemlock. Fair-skinned hands clutching at a long neck…

Some memories hurt more than others.

His disguises are many to keep suspicions at bay, but he favors the familiarity of creaky bones and a long, white beard. No one bothers a homely old man. No one looks twice. He's able to blend in, to become nothing more than a watcher in the shadows.

Waiting is all he has left.

-x-

Once, on a warm day in spring, he sees her.

It's one of the days he's using his own face, his own eyes, as he takes a walk through a crowded marketplace. The sounds and the smells remind him of the citadel, and sometimes if he tries hard enough he can hear Gwen calling his name as she hurries up behind him. But she isn't, no matter how many times he checks over his shoulder.

It's a laugh that catches him. A laugh that lifts the haze.

Across the street, on the patio of some small café, she sits at a small table with a friend. At least, he assumes she is; the other girl is all but invisible to him. All he can see is the dark waves of hair, pale skin, and emerald eyes.

He wants to bolt across the busy street. He wants to talk with her, to have the discussion they desperately needed all those years ago. He wants to explain everything. He wants to be with her. But he doesn't move.

He can see it in the way she's laughing, a sight he never thought he would see again. Even when his life was contained in the walls of Camelot, he only ever saw it in his dreams. He can see it in how it radiates across the contours of her face. In her posture, in her smile, in her eyes.

She's happy.

And she can remain happy if she doesn't remember. If she remembers him, if she remembers what he did, he knows it will all be shattered.

So he turns, slipping back into the crowd.

-x-

Across the street, on the patio of a small café, her gaze is pulled upwards. She sees his retreating figure—the mess of dark hair, the outline of large ears, and the scrawny build that could not be hidden by his grey overcoat. He was leaving. Something mixed between anxiety and adrenaline comes over her, and she has a sudden urge to follow him. Her vision seems to become tunneled, and the longer she looked the louder a name sounded in her mind.

"Morgana?"

She is pulled from her trance. Noise returns to the world.

"Y…" she clears her throat. "Yes?"

"I asked if you were alright," her friend Sophie eyed her warily from behind square-framed reading glasses. "You went as white as a sheet all of a sudden."

"Oh." She musters a brief smile. "I just spaced out for a second. I'm fine."

But once her friend continued on with her tale, Morgana found her eyes returning to that spot across the street.

_Merlin._

He was gone.


	2. ii

yeah, so i am not a fan of how this turned out. however, nothing better was coming and it's been four months.  
it hasn't been beta'd and i hardly read it over. so sorry

(no but seriously my other mergana fic is better go read that one instead)

i would like to thank meee18, lilmiss, Bolivianfall, AmyNY, zarifa2013, and Guest for their reviews on the first bit. it meant a lot :)

* * *

_Her senses are blurred—ears buzzing, head throbbing. The light grew, becoming larger and larger until it burned. She closed her eyes and turned in defense, but a rough shove from behind pushed her forwards. Noise returns, fast and shrewd._

_She hears jeers. Shoots, curses. Two sets of hands grasp her forearm and lead her forwards. She can hardly stand straight, but she tries.  
_

_It had rained the night before. Her feet were dragged through the small puddles that had accumulated, toes scrapping against the stone of the courtyard (her boots having been lost to her weeks prior)._

_She almost trips up the first step. A small rock makes contact with the side of her face—there is laughter._

_And then she reaches the top. And then she can survey the crowd. And then she is allowed to look up, to see the balcony._

_They all look stoic, emotionless and void. She almost smiles at the sight—like little wooden figures. The King is standing with his little crown and his little wife to his left, looking as solemn as he is regal. Laughter grows in her throat—he's regretting this. But his regret is not enough for him to stop this. His regret is not enough to overcome his pride._

_Someone begins to speak, but she isn't listening._

_She wants to see him last. She wants his remorse and his guilt to be the last she saw. But when she looks at him she sees something else. Something worse._

-x-

Breathing heavily, clutching at her bed sheets she regains consciousness.

It has become routine, her nightmares. So frequently has she awoken covered in sweat in the past month that she has stopped sleeping underneath her covers. She is exhausted; the torment is relentless.

The doctor she sees hands her a prescription for sleep aids, but those don't help. "Try a half dose more, my child," is all he says in return. All it does is leave her as numb and empty.

Her school work was beginning to slip. Her social life nonexistent. She has become a shell of the person she once was.

-x-

_A clap of thunder booms from the distance. A drop of rain hits the bridge of her nose. It's fitting. The drops begin to fall more frequently until a drizzle has accumulated. The soft _plink_ of the water against armor begins to accompany the jeers._

_Rain means renewal. Rain means forgiveness._

_It's the second time she feels like laughing._

-x-

She is plagued by the image of the faceless stranger from the market. The sight of dark hair atop a lean frame sends her reeling. Forest green jackets make her heart rate quicken.

_Merlin_.

She begins to work the street corner into the route of her drives. Any excuse she could find brought her out, and some days she'd pass by more than once. He is never there. She starts to think she imagined it.

-x-

_She is pushed down to her knees, but her eyes don't leave the faces on the balcony. The jeers and taunts from the spectators have grown to a dull buzzing in her ear. Perhaps if they knew. Perhaps if they understood, thing would be different._

_But she has long ago given up on what could have been._

_She locks eyes with him. It does not register that it is the last time she ever will._

_The King raises his hand for the signal._

-x-

Weeks pass and still no sighting.

She has become comfortable with the conclusion that she has lost it. Comfortable enough to pretend like she hasn't. She goes through the motions of daily life on autopilot. She smiles when appropriate, laughs when necessary. And if she believes it hard enough, the nightmares don't bother her either.

She returns to the marketplace now for leisure. She does not take in the features and build of those around her. She does not turn when she feels eyes upon her.

She finds something familiar in the market. Something in the stands of fresh fruits, of handmade baskets and crafts. She stops at every display of fabrics, letting her fingers run over the soft materials. A sense of déjà vu overcomes her at the sights of the colors and patterns and she thinks she hears someone laughing joyously in her ear, convincing her to buy the green one because no one at court will be able to take their eyes off of her.

She's completely comfortable with her loose grip on reality.

One afternoon, a storm appears. The shop vendors around her hurry to cover their goods from the impending rainfall. People rush past her, seeking shelter from the roars of thunder and flashes of lightning. She supposes she ought to return to her car. Storms are not something to be caught in, to enjoy.

Turning, she finds her path impeded.

Tall frame. Lean build. Dark hair. Everything else dissolves, and he is all she sees. She is hit with images, flashes of him in her mind replaying over and over. Smiling, laughing, pained, hurt.

She is at a loss. For words, for air. The effect this stranger was having on her was staggering.

Perhaps her silence caught his notice. Perhaps she was having a similar effect on him and he could no longer resist. He raised his gaze and the world stopped for a second time.

His face was long, his cheekbones high. His eyes. She had not glimpsed them before, but _his eyes_. To merely say they were blue would not be say enough. The irises were bright and iridescent and wise and tired and beaten and somehow she couldn't look away.

She doesn't feel like she's meeting him—she is remembering him.

Because she knows him. She can feel it. His eyes were piercing and wise and intense and soft and something tells her they have seen everything there is to see. They saw her. They saw her now, they saw her then. They're familiar. And there, in the presence of his gaze and his stature and his essence and _him_, it all clicks.

When the King's hand fell, so had she.

"Y-you." She's sputtering. "Wha-"

She thinks she might be sick.

He hasn't said anything, but she knows. She knows he's aware of what she saw. He looks at her the same way he did that morning—with pity, sorrow, guilt.

_She is handed a drink. _

Her head felt as if it was being split open.

"_Have some before I finish it."_

The pull she felt earlier was slowly becoming replaced with repulsion. "Get away." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Get away from me."

"Morgana-" He steps closer, finally speaking. It sounds like a dream. This must be a dream.

"Stop," She held out her hand. "Don't."

"Listen. Please, listen to me," The tips of his fingers brush her arm as he reaches for her. The contact stung. "I need you to listen to me."

She can't. She won't. The street is empty. A drop of rain hits the bridge of her nose.

_We can find another way._

She faces him. "You killed me."

He swallows. "Y-you were executed-"

"No," She shakes her head. This must be a dream. _Merlin._ "You turned away. You poisoned me. _You killed me_."

He doesn't try again. Instead he stands motionless, the grip of his fingers loosening around her arm.

It's easy to shake him off.

-x-

She doesn't know where to go from there. Her nightmares did not cease, and the hope that seeing him would put them at bay was shattered.

She beings to take walks when the sky is at its darkest in hopes that the city would bring her comfort. If anything it only serves to make her feel more isolated. A reincarnated sorceress among a world of mortals.

She doesn't belong here.

-x-

A week after she awakens, everything has returned to her. A piece of herself (she isn't sure which self, at this point) yearns for her sister. For her brother. For any semblance of comfort.

She is able to fill some of her void with her anger and resentment. Towards her father. Towards Merlin.

Towards herself.

-x-

He lives in a small house tucked away in the woods.

It has all the markings of a lonely soul. Moss covered the roof, paint was peeling, the windows were more grime than glass, and the door stood crooked on it's hinges. She supposed it had some charm.

He was tending to the fire when she silently crossed the threshold, the head of dark hair the first thing she laid eyes upon. She can tell he's aware of her presence by his stiffened shoulders.

"Merlin," is all she says.

He rises and turns to face her. She had missed those eyes. "Morgana."

There was so much to be said. So much, and nothing was coming to her.

They stand facing each other, the small space of the house separating them. What should she say? What could be said to someone you trusted, someone who shut you out, someone who drove the final nail into the coffin of your demise. She blamed him. She missed him.

It's then she realizes he's staring at her just as much as she is him. But there is something different about his gaze. It's apologetic, it's sorrowful, but there was a tenderness present in the depths of his eyes. She remembers a similar look from long ago.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He smiles softly. A drop of water from the ceiling hits the bridge of her nose.


End file.
